


On The Other End of the Line

by velleities



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Discovers This Brave New World, Eventual Christmas Fluff, Happy Ending, Lots of Food, Lots of Starbucks Coffees, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Peggy Dies Earlier than in CW, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Tiny bit of Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 04:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9056137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velleities/pseuds/velleities
Summary: He has been strongly advised against picking up calls from blocked numbers. The fall of SHIELD has afforded him many enemies, and blocked numbers can’t be traced. But it’s 3 a.m., the phone is ringing, and Steve is dazed and somewhat spooked.“Hello?” he mumbles groggily, his voice muffled by the pillow.“Steve?”Steve’s eyes snap open. “Bucky?”Wherein: after the fall of SHIELD and the disappearance of the Winter Soldier, Steve receives an unexpected call from Bucky. It’s the first in a long series of calls that leave Steve longing for more – only, he doesn’t know Bucky’s number, whereabouts or current activities. All he can do is wait, on the other end of the line.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Christmas gift for [ littleblackfox ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox) for [Tumblr’s Stucky Secret Santa 2016](http://stuckysecretsanta2016.tumblr.com). Surprise!! I’m your Secret Santa <3\. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> As usual, infinite thanks to [curiositykilled](http://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/works/) for beta-reading.
> 
> Come cry with me [on Tumblr](http://buckities.tumblr.com).

 

  _April_

 The phone rings at precisely 3 a.m.

 Steve jolts awake.

 He has been strongly advised against picking up calls from blocked numbers. The fall of SHIELD has afforded him many enemies, they said. Blocked numbers can’t be traced, they warned. But it’s 3 a.m., the phone is ringing, and Steve is dazed and somewhat spooked.

 He blearily squints at the screen and picks up his cell.

 “Hello?” he mumbles groggily, his voice muffled by the pillow.

 The other end of the line is silent. Steve frowns and waits. His eyelids slowly start drooping, phone slack in his fingers when –

 “Steve?”

 Steve’s eyes snap open, breath hitching in his chest.

 “Bucky?”

 Silence.

 Steve props himself on his elbow and furiously blinks away the sleep in his eyes. He strains his ears for a sound, anything more than this deafening silence. 

 “Steve?”

 Bucky’s voice is hoarse, strangled, an almost whisper, but it’s _his_ voice, and every nerve and muscle in Steve’s body goes numb.

 “Yes, Buck, it’s me,” he says, mustering all of his strength to keep his tone steady.

 He waits for Bucky to speak, but again, he’s met with silence. He can hear Bucky’s ragged breathing, heavy and elaborate.

 “Are you alright?” Bucky rasps.

 Steve starts at the question. He _is_ alright– he’s been out of the hospital and in a new apartment for three days now, nothing on his body betraying the brutal battle on the helicarrier, save from a faint scar on his stomach that will fade over time.

 It’s Bucky that’s been troubling him. Steve has been exhausting himself trying to think of ways to track Bucky down, to convince him to let Steve help. Still, not once has he entertained the thought of Bucky calling, much less inquiring after his well-being.

 “I’m – Yes, Bucky, I’m fine, I’m alright, I...”

 He has questions – so many questions.

 “Bucky, where –”

 The line goes dead.

~

 

  _May_

 It’s rounding midnight when the blocked number calls again, and this time Steve isn’t asleep. He’s been hoping for another call for two weeks now. He’s been searching for Bucky high and low. He has even flown to Eastern Europe and back, to no avail.

 When the phones rings, he lunges for it and shoves it against his ear.

 “Hello?”

 “I didn’t even know you.”

 It’s a strained, wounded sound. Bucky’s voice is still hoarse, either from disuse, or abuse. Steve finds both distressing.

 “You did when it mattered,” he says evenly.

 “You threw away your shield.”

 Steve rubs his eyes, frustrated. “Buck, it doesn’t matter now,” he tries. “It wasn’t you.”

 “I shot you,” Bucky insists, voice flat.

 “I dislocated your shoulder,” Steve counters.

 “We’re not – we’re not even,” Bucky says. “It’s not a game. Steve, I nearly...”

 “You didn’t know,” Steve says firmly. “And then you did. And you stopped.”

 There’s that unbearable silence again. Steve doesn’t know if he should press or wait.

 “You’ve seen what I...” Bucky starts, and pauses. “What they... You’ve seen what’s been done?”

 “Yes,” Steve replies. “There’s a file.”

 “It’s worse than you’ve read,” Bucky says with no discernible emotion.

 “I know,” Steve says.

 And silence.

 Steve has had a lot of time to ponder that call – if it ever came. He knows there’s no point in asking Bucky where he is. If he wanted Steve to know, Steve would know. He knows he probably doesn’t have the luxury to go into the real questions – what Bucky remembers, what he thinks or feels. He’s had a lot of time to weigh what really matters – what Steve needs to say, what Bucky needs to know before he disappears again.

 “Bucky,” he starts, failing to control the quiver in his voice, “Buck, I don’t know what you’re thinking right now, I don’t know what’s on your mind, but if what _I_ think matters to you at all, don’t believe for a second that it’s your fault, that anything is your fault. If anything –” he gulps in a breath – “if anything, Bucky, I blame myself for – for not...”

  _For not plummeting to certain death after you fell from the train_ ; but Bucky would resent Steve for even implying it.

 “If it matters to you at all,” Steve continues, shaken, “don’t – don’t take on the weight of things you couldn’t control. I _know_ you, Buck, and if you doubt yourself, if you’re – you’re uncertain of things, trust _me_. I know you would never do any of what they made you do if you had a choice, you’d never –” he shakes his head – “Please, Bucky, I don’t – please, take care of yourself, whatever you’re doing, please stay safe –”

 The line goes dead.

~

 Within a week, Steve has given up all hope of Bucky calling again. He’s convinced he said the wrong things, babbled too much even if he meant it all. When he’s tortured himself to the point of exhaustion, the phone rings again.

 “Steve?”

 “I’ve been searching for you,” Steve says hastily.

 “Don’t,” Bucky says distantly. “Or do,” he adds as an afterthought. “I’m good at disappearing.”

 “I figured,” Steve replies humorlessly.

 “I need time.”

 In an odd way, Steve finds this comforting. It’s not refusal, rejection, it’s not ‘Back off and leave me alone.’ Steve thinks Bucky is leaving room for more, for a future when he won’t need time anymore. It’s more than he dared to expect, so he doesn’t push.

 “If you –” Steve straightens his shoulders; he doesn’t want to go the ‘if you need help’ route, imply that Bucky is helpless or not enough on his own. “If I can be there in any way, just let me know.”

 “Okay.”

 “Anything,” Steve insists.

 He shouldn’t be insisting. He should stop. This is just selfish, he knows that, he insists because _he_ needs Bucky to ask for help; _he_ needs Bucky not to go through this alone; _he_ needs to not go through this without Bucky.

 “Any kind of support, anything at all.”

 “Okay,” Bucky repeats.

 “Any time, any –”

 “Steve,” Bucky stops him. “Okay.”

 Steve tightens his lips and nods, even though Bucky can’t see him. “Okay,” he echoes.

 The line drops dead.

~

 

  _June_

 It’s torture, waiting for a call that might never come, but Steve holds on to the hope like his life depends on it. He’s stopped looking for Bucky. Everyone who’s anyone will let him know if there is a sighting of the former Winter Soldier, but Steve is not interrogating people anymore, nor is he flying off to distant places and possible hideouts. Instead, he helps out the remaining agents of SHIELD, those he trusts to be on the right side. Keeping busy is his way of keeping sane.

 It’s a full week before Bucky calls again. It might as well be an eternity.

 “Hello?”

 Bucky clears his throat in lieu of a greeting. “Couple of questions,” he says roughly.

 Steve props his elbows on the kitchen table, rests his chin in his palm. “Shoot.” He flinches at his choice of word, but Bucky doesn’t sound deterred.

 “When –” Bucky clears his throat again – “when you were small, you never – they never took you. Right?”

 “Took me? You mean Hydra?” Steve scratches his cheek, brow furrowed. “No, we didn’t even know they existed.”

 “Never experimented on you,” Bucky presses.

 “No, Buck,” Steve says soothingly. “I only learned of them after you were deployed.”

 “Okay,” Bucky breathes; he hedges before continuing with, “Rebecca.”

 Steve swallows hard; Bucky’s sister has been dead for a few years now. Steve doesn’t want to be the one to tell Bucky that. He hopes this isn’t the question.

 “She...” Bucky’s voice comes out thin and unsteady – “I never – hurt her?”

 Steve jerks back with a start.“Jesus, Buck, no. Of course not.”

 “Never tried t- to strangle her when she was a- a child?” Bucky’s voice cracks.

 It’s the first time Bucky has displayed this much emotion; Steve would be glad, if it wasn’t breaking his heart.

 “You never did. I swear to you, you never did,” Steve affirms.

 “Okay” – Bucky takes a deep breath – “Did I burn down a dancehall?”

 “I...” Steve trails off, uncertain, because _that_ he doesn’t know. “It wasn’t in your files.”

 “The – the Howling Commandoes were there, and Peggy Carter. It went up in flames.”

 “Oh. No, that didn’t happen either,” Steve says. “They all survived the war. Peggy’s still alive, even.”

 “You – you came at me for burning the thing down,” Bucky goes on, his voice low. “You punched me in the chest. But you were crying. Because I killed your friends.”

 Steve suppresses a sigh. “They were your friends too, Buck, and no, that never happened.”

 There’s a beat as Bucky ponders this. “Okay.”

 “Is this... Are you – confused?” Steve asks lamely.

 Bucky falls silent. Steve resigns to waiting for him to hang up.

 “Nightmares,” Bucky grits out, jolting Steve out of his wallowing.

 Steve’s heart clenches with ache.

 “Do you need anything?”

 “No,” Bucky replies.

 “You don’t have to–” Steve rubs his forehead wearily – “We don’t have to meet. I can drop somewhere whatever you might need, I ...”

 He heaves a helpless sigh.

 “Steve,” Bucky says, his voice soft enough for Steve to consider that he might be trying to comfort him. “No.”

 “You have money?” Steve asks.

 Bucky lets out a small huff. “I’m appropriating Hydra’s secret stashes. Figured it’s fair enough.”

 Steve snorts out a chuckle. _Fair enough_ is cutting is a bit short.

 There’s faint shuffling on the other line; Steve steels himself for the sound of a dropped call.

 It doesn’t come.

 “G’night, Steve,” Bucky says quietly.

 “G’night, Buck,” Steve returns.

 His hands tremble as he gingerly sets the phone on the table.

~

 Within the following week, the phone rings again. Steve is eating a late night bowl of cereal and watching tv when he hears the shrill sound. He almost spills the whole thing on the floor and makes a mental note to switch to a milder tone.

 He licks milk from his forefinger and thumb. “Hello.”

 There’s a beat of silence first, and then –

 “Hello.”

 Between last week’s ‘good night’ and this week’s ‘hello,’ Steve has been the grateful recipient of a farewell and a greeting in a row. It’s definitely a step-up from having the line drop dead on the spot. Even though he dreads, a little, what new unnerving statements or questions this call will bring, Steve finds himself grinning like an idiot.

 “Do you remember that time,” Bucky starts, voice low and mellow, “you cooked Irish for a whole week?”

 Steve hadn’t – the memory had completely slipped his mind until Bucky mentions it and it all comes back. He sucks in a breath, eyes going wide.

 “Jesus, why would you –”

 “It was awful,” Bucky says; Steve wonders if what he is detecting in Bucky’s voice is actually a smile.

 “In my defense,” Steve starts, holding up a finger.

 “D’you remember the vegetable stew?” Bucky asks, incredulous. “It was – it was actually uncooked.”

 “I recooked it,” Steve says, petulantly shoving his hand under his elbow.

 “Wasn’t any better,” Bucky observes. “And the colcannon?”

 Steve groans, because – yeah; that one was bad. But still –

 “Well, it had leeks, you hated leeks either way.”

 “No – it tasted of nothing,” Bucky says. “ _Water_ has taste, compared to that thing.”

 Steve gapes, exasperated. “Come on! You’re kinda overselling it –”

 “And the potato cakes, you could – I could taste the smoke on them,” Bucky continues in quiet awe.

 “Okay, so they might’ve burned a little –”

 “A little,” Bucky says.

 Steve can hear the sarcasm and it brings a smile on his lips.

 “And that Shamrock salad. How do you even mess up a salad?”

 “You still ate all of the damn things,” Steve protests.

 “Couldn’t let the food go to waste,” Bucky says calmly. “You blew off our potato supply.”

 “Least the apple cake was good,” Steve reminds him.

 “The apple cake was good,” Bucky agrees. “A whole week of Irish dishes from the guy who couldn’t cook two eggs without wrecking the kitchen.”

 “In my defense –” Steve tries again.

 “You wanted to reconnect with your roots?” Bucky finishes.

 “Ma had just died!” Steve gripes.

 Steve doesn’t habitually refer to his mother as ‘ma’ anymore. His ‘ma’ is, in this century, known as Sarah Rogers, Captain America’s mother, and Steve hasn’t felt right referring to her as ‘ma’ to people who didn’t know her; it always seemed childish, nostalgic for a time long-gone.

 But Bucky knows; for him, Sarah has always been ‘Steve’s ma.’ ‘Steve’s ma’ made them her famous apple pie; ‘Steve’s ma’ shooed Bucky out of the Rogers’ household when it got dark, knowing full well that Bucky would just climb back in through Steve’s bedroom window and spend the night; ‘Steve’s ma’ always felt safer when Bucky was with Steve, because Steve was reckless and frail, and Bucky knew how to handle both. That’s the Sarah that Steve and Bucky know, not a name in a history book, but a kind, strong woman with eyes ever-tired but ever-sparkling.

 Steve has missed Bucky and the things they share so deeply that a simple thing as using ‘ma’ warms him up from the inside.

  “Imagine how scarred I was,” Bucky is saying, “that this is the first thing I thought when I saw the date.”

 “The date?”

 It’s June 17th. It doesn’t hold any special significance.

 “National Eat your Vegetables Day,” Bucky explains softly. “And all your Irish masterpieces were chockfull of vegetables. So.”

 “Why on earth do you know that?” Steve asks in disbelief. “I didn’t even know there _was_ an Eat Your Vegetables day.”

 “It’s –”

 Bucky stops short, as if unsure whether to divulge this information. Steve falters, thinking he has passed the invisible line between what Bucky is and isn’t willing to share, what he is and isn’t willing to be asked.

 “It’s on my national day calendar.”

 Steve blinks slowly. “You have a national day calendar?”

 “Well, I have _a_ calendar,” Bucky amends. “I needed one, to – keep track of time, and it just happened to be a national day calendar” – he breathes out a snort – “Never knew we had so many national days.”

 A national day calendar of _The States_. Steve wonders if that means Bucky is at least in the country. He knows better than to ask.

 “So, Steve,” Bucky continues, almost conversational, “say, when did bananas go rogue?”

~

 

  _July_

 “Happy birthday.”

 Steve smiles, licking birthday cake off his spoon. “I was just feasting on my cake,” Steve says, grinning.

 “Does it have your face on it?” Bucky asks, quite possibly smiling a small smile.

 Steve laughs soundlessly. “No.”

 “A dedication to America’s most fit relic?”

 “Seriously?”

 Given his cake was ordered by Sam, it’s a wonder it actually doesn’t have any piping of the sort.

 Bucky clucks his tongue disapprovingly. “Then it’s not a good cake.” He breathes out a sigh. “Did it at least have 1000 candles?”

 “It’s still my birthday, Buck, be nice to me,” Steve complains, spoon swirling on the frosting.

 “D’you remember that I tried to convince you the 4th of July fireworks were actually for your birthday?” Bucky asks fondly.

 Steve smirks. “You always did think I’m an idiot.”

 “See, that’s why I can’t be nice to you, you never did appreciate it,” Bucky says, and Steve can definitely hear a smile. “But I would have done it anyway,” he adds. “If I could.”

 “Would’ve done what?” Steve asks, eating a spoonful of cake.

 “Lit up fireworks to celebrate you,” Bucky says softly.

 Steve swallows wrong and gulps down a cough. Bucky hasn’t voiced any affection so far, not like this. It is obviously a big moment, a milestone in their conversations, possibly a milestone on Bucky’s recovery of himself, Steve can understand this much. What he can’t understand is if Bucky is speaking for the present, or on behalf of his younger self. Steve wonders how much Bucky _does_ remember; he desperately wants to ruin the moment and ask.

 “Remember Mrs. Waltsworth?” Bucky says suddenly, and Steve is saved from his inner struggle.

 “The hell I do!” he exclaims. “Ma slapped me for the first and last time in my life that day. And on my damn birthday no less.”

 Bucky breathes out a chuckle; Steve almost purrs at the sound.

 “C’mon, Buck, Mrs. Waltsworth was the devil. She literally crashed into us, made you drop the cake and didn’t even apologize – _she_ told _us_ off instead, and for what? Walking in her vicinity?!”

 “It was a lousy cake anyway,” Bucky says.

 “No, it wasn’t,” Steve says loyally, because Bucky had made that cake.

 They might not have actually tasted it, but it would have been good either way; it was homemade, baked and decorated just for him.

 “I made it without mom’s help, trust me, it would’ve been lousy,” Bucky says. “And you mouthed off so bad.”

 “The hell I did. She destroyed your cake _and_ told _us_ off!”

 “And you paid the price.”

 “My _mother_ was being ridiculous,” Steve says haughtily. “Why should I draw a _pretty_ sketch and gift it to that woman to _apologize_ , she was –”

 “The devil,” Bucky finishes for him, smiling.

 “Yes!” Steve says. “Listen. Drawing that obscene thing I gave to her was the best thing I’ve ever done in my life. Including punching Hitler 200 times.”

 Bucky chuckles again and Steve wants to reach through the phone and tackle him in a bear hug.

 “She actually shrieked,” Bucky says warmly. “She actually shrieked when she saw it.”

 “I know how to move my audience,” Steve says, unrepentant. “And that slap was completely unjustified.”

 He licks his lips, soft and sweet from the cake’s frosting. “Hey, Buck? Thanks for calling.”

~

 A week later, Bucky calls again. Steve’s nursing a glass of iced chocolate and browsing his tablet; he picks his cell up on the first ring.

 “Hey,” he starts, because no other blocked number calls him, and Steve refuses to consider it might not be Bucky.

 “Hey,” Bucky says. “I can’t believe I used to like summers, Steve.”

 He sounds almost hurt about it; Steve smiles.

 “It’s scorching hot. I’m melting away.”

 “Every kid likes summer,” Steve says conversationally. “Means no school.”

 “But at _what cost_ ,” Bucky moans.

 “I’ve got air-conditioning,” Steve says breezily.

 “Enjoy your supremacy,” Bucky snipes.

 There’s a whoosh, a zing and a hiss in the background, and Bucky yelps, “Ow, shit – shit – shit.”

 It’s the most animated Steve’s heard him.

 “What?”

 “Got foiled by my own perimeter.” Bucky sucks on something, possibly his finger.

 Steve sits up straighter, alarmed. “Why are you setting a perimeter?”

 Technically it’s a smart move, but Steve has grown paranoid.

 Bucky seems to contemplate whether he should answer.

 “I moved to a different house,” he says eventually. “Than where I was. It’s – it’s better.”

 “But why are you setting a perimeter?” Steve insists. “You in danger? Is anyone after you?”

 He’s just about to jump up and grab his shield – only, he wouldn’t know where to go.

 “No, Steve – no more than usual, at least, considering who I am,” Bucky says easily.  “It’s just a precaution.”

 “Do you...”

  _Need help_? But Bucky has thwarted Steve’s offers before and Steve is not sure if there is any point suggesting it.

 “It’s just a makeshift perimeter for my own peace of mind,” Bucky explains. “It’s not paranoia when it’s common sense.”

 “Yeah, just – just...”

 Steve trails off, uncertain. _Stay safe; take care; I can’t lose you_.

 “Just don’t die.”

  _Jesus. Way to go, Rogers._

 He tries to save face, but what comes out is, “I’d – I’d rather you not die.”

  _Nope_. He smacks his head against the table.

 Bucky sounds bemused; “Okay.”

~

 

  _August_

 It is bound to happen, some time. The thought terrifies Steve – not being around to hear the phone, not being able to pick it up – but it is bound to happen. He can carry it on him at all times – and he does – but some SHIELD missions can’t afford him to have a phone on his person. Checking for missed calls is the first thing he does after such missions. His SHIELD associates believe he has a girlfriend, or boyfriend, or either, depending on who is asked.

 A seemingly easy op turned wrong keeps them busy for two days straight, phone abandoned in SHIELD’s secret headquarters while Steve and the agents hover over the country in a Stark-tweaked quinjet, trying to take out the bad guys before they are taken out first.

 A lot of heads turn; the media gets interested.

 Two days later, Steve is dismayed to find three missed calls, and wallows his way through a sad vanilla pudding, a sad trifle and a sad lasagna. He’s idly watching the news relay the incident, none the wiser about SHIELD’s existence, when the phone rings. It’s his favorite blocked number.

 “Hello?”

 “Are you okay?” Bucky demands.

 “Yes” – Steve’s shoulders loosen with relief at Bucky’s voice.

 “I distinctly remember you telling me not to die,” Bucky says.

 He actually sounds _pissed_ , and Steve gloats. He’d never think being admonished would make him feel so warm, but here he is.

 “Yes,” Steve confirms.

 “It goes both ways.”

 Steve barely suppresses an undignified giggle. “I’m sorry, Buck, I wouldn’t – there was this op that I was a part of, and –”

 “I know, I saw,” Bucky cuts him of.

 Steve frowns. “But they didn’t – it’s – it’s a secret.”

 “What, that SHIELD’s still operational and you’re helping out?” Bucky says lightly. “For anyone not in the know, maybe. I put two and two together” – he exhales heavily –“There was _a lot_ of shooting.”

 “Yeah,” Steve says.

 “And things blowing up,” Bucky continues darkly.

 “Yes,” Steve replies.

 “Just – don’t die,” Bucky mutters.

 Steve misses him so intensely he feels it like a pang in his heart.

 “Buck?”

 “Steve.”

 “Is it time yet? Can I see you?”

 There’s silence, and it’s loaded, and Bucky breathes out.

 “Steve,” he says; he sounds pained.

 “Sorry,” Steve says hurriedly. “Never mind, I’m sorry. I am.”

~

 “Remember when you punched Gabe wearing only your underwear?” Bucky asks a week later.

 He sounds subdued, troubled. The sentiment doesn’t fit the recollection; Steve doesn’t like it.

 “You can’t hold that against me,” he plays along. “I was provoked.”

 “They were pranking you.”

 “Shuffling into my tent in the middle of the night to cover me with flowers isn’t pranking, it’s asking for trouble,” Steve upholds.

 “It was Gabe’s idea,” Bucky says, his voice thin.

 “Then I punched the right person,” Steve says; he amends with, “Look, I told you then and I’m telling you now, I didn’t know what was up, I was asleep. I heard sounds, I thought danger.”

 “War time,” Bucky murmurs.

 Something is out of place; Steve doesn’t know what.

 “Remember when your hair almost caught fire?” he asks, trying to engage Bucky in something – in retrospect – amusing.

 “Oh,” Bucky warns feebly. “Oh. Too soon.”

 “ _Too soon_?” Steve asks in a high-pitched voice, overplaying his reaction to lift Bucky’s spirits. “Bet that was one time you did appreciate my enhanced senses!”

 “You really smelled the smoke?” Bucky asks.

 “I really smelled the smoke, I smelled the ends of your hair roasting,” Steve affirms. “Falling asleep on the table, by a _burning candle_.”

 “Too soon.”

 “Too soon,” Steve comments dubiously.

 “It will never not be too soon.”

 They spend an hour recounting memories from their Howlies days – the good, fun parts of it – and Steve fights to remain upbeat while Bucky gets progressively more withdrawn.

 Steve tightens his grip on the phone. “Hey.”

 “Hey,” Bucky echoes quietly – more out of habit, Steve thinks, than actual engagement.

 “You okay?”

 There’s a sniffle from the other end; Steve feels unsettled.

 “We were gonna travel the world,” Bucky says. “We always talked about it. We’d get the money. And some day we would.”

 “We can still do that,” Steve says, his voice urgent; he feels that Bucky is slipping off his fingers, somehow.

 “Buck. You still there? We can still do that.”

~

 A week passes; Bucky doesn’t call.

~

 Two weeks pass; Bucky doesn’t call.

~

 

  _September_

 Three weeks pass; Bucky doesn’t call and Steve is sick with worry.

~

 When Bucky does call, on a dark, rainy Wednesday, nearly a month after he last made contact, the call finds Steve curled up on his couch, knees drawn tightly against his chest, eyes squeezed shut in a childish attempt to tune out the world. He is in mourning.

 “Hello?” he says hoarsely after he’s reached the phone with unsteady fingers.

 “Steve?”

 Steve lets out the breath he’s been holding since he last heard Bucky’s voice.

 “Buck.”  

 He doesn’t really know what else to say. He mutters Bucky’s name like a chant, over and over under his breath, his body shaking with unreleased tension, until Bucky cuts him with, “Steve.”

 “Sorry,” Steve says, rubbing eyes that are puffy and red-rimmed. “It’s been a while.”

 A beat and then, “Yeah.”

 “Did you know?” Steve asks. “That why you’re calling?”

 Bucky draws in a breath. “Know what?”

 “Peggy. She passed.”

 There’s a moment of stunned silence on the other line.

 “I didn’t know,” Bucky says. “I wish I could be there.”

 It’s gentle, heartfelt and honest. Steve feels tears running down his cheeks, because this, _this_ is the most comfort he’s felt in the last two days, despite the hugs and the back pats and the consoling speeches. Nothing can replace this, and it makes Steve feel both warm, because Bucky is there, on the other end of the line, with Steve, and dismayed, because Bucky is there, on the _other end of the line_ , and not with Steve.

 “How...” Bucky trails off, the question clearly implied.

 “In her sleep.” Steve sniffles, wipes his nose. “Sharon called me. Peggy’s niece.”

 “Friend?” Bucky asks warily.

 “Ally,” Steve replies.

 They both fall silent. Steve grieves and listens to Bucky’ steady breathing.

 “Steve, I’m so sorry,” Bucky says. “I would’ve called sooner if I’d known, I’d’ve tried, I...”

 “’S okay,” Steve says thickly.

 “It’s – it’s been hard,” Bucky explains.

 Steve is just grateful that Bucky cares enough to explain.

 “It’s been a hard few days –”

 “A month,” Steve corrects, sniffling.

 “A month,” Bucky amends. “It’s – it’s been hard, and I couldn’t...”

 “Are you safe?”

 “Yeah,” Bucky reassures.

 “Are you okay?” Steve asks, although he knows he is; he sounds present, sure of himself, maybe more so than Steve has ever heard him in the last months.

 “Yeah,” Bucky says. “Are you?”

 “Yeah,” Steve murmurs.

 He can’t hold up a conversation. He doesn’t want Bucky to go – he craves his company – but he’s too drained to think of anything to say. He resorts to just feeling pitiful for himself, breathing in and out and listening to Bucky breathing in and out in return.

 “D’you want to hang up?” Bucky asks gently.

 “No,” Steve says hurriedly.

 “Okay.”

 Twenty minutes later, Steve is slowly drifting into sleep.

 “Steve?”

 “Mm?” Steve mumbles into the phone, cradling it as if cradling Bucky.

 “G’night.”

 “G’night, Buck,” he manages drowsily.

~

 Steve somehow sleeps through the night. The shrill tune of the phone wakes him up at noon.

 “Hello,” he says, stretching his cramped neck and legs.

 “You sound – did I wake you?” Bucky asks.

 “Surprisingly,” Steve says, throat and mouth utterly dry.

 “You okay?” Bucky asks.

 Steve looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. His eyes are puffy, hair sticking out every which way; his face is unusually pale, his shoulders hunched.

 “Yeah,” he replies, because he is, or he will be.

~

 Steve longs for home. This house, DC, they don’t feel like home, not really. Steve needs to be in New York.

 All it takes is a week, and he moves in to his new apartment with the valuable help of Pepper Potts, the non-existent help of Tony Stark who just watches everyone else set up the place, and the unexpected help of Clint Barton, of all people, who has taken a liking to Steve and is actually a cool person to hang with.

 Steve settles in his new place, stocks up, decorates as he deems right, and feels like he’s finally arrived home. Maybe it’s because it’s in Brooklyn; maybe it’s because, at the back of his mind, it’s a home reserved for two, with just enough empty spaces to fit a certain someone else.

 “Did you get Nutella?” Bucky asks.

 “As a matter of fact, I did,” Steve says, setting his newly-bought food in the cupboards and refrigerator.

 “Did you get sweet potatoes?”

 Steve halters – “Sweet w – no,” he says, frowning. “It’s not my go-to thing.”

 “Okay, listen,” Bucky instructs. “You’ve got to try Nutella on sweet potato fries.”

 Steve’s mouth curls dubiously. “Bucky, no.”

 “I’m telling you,” Bucky insists, “it’s a small miracle.”

~

 On the 26th, Steve lounges on his couch, munching on sweet potato fries covered in Nutella when he’s informed that it’s National Pancake Day.

 “And how’s that going for you?” Steve asks, shoving a fry in his mouth.

 “Uh,” Bucky says; there’s a brief scratching sound; Steve assumes he’s scratching his hair, or maybe a scruff if he has one. “I’ll get there. With practice.”

 “I’m ordering in mine,” Steve says.

 “That’s probably wise,” Bucky says. “Mine look more like... I don’t know, thin bread?”

 “You’ll get there,” Steve assures.

~

 The 29th is, apparently, National Coffee Day.

 “Is it?” Steve asks, idly starting on a sketch of a coffee cup. “For me it’s coffee day every day.”

 “With you on that one,” Bucky says.

 Steve hears a gulp.

 “You drinkin’ one right now?” he asks, lips quirking upwards.

 “And holy hell it’s good,” Bucky confirms. “Pumpkin Spice Latte, my first ever. Try it out if you haven’t.”

 Steve raises an eyebrow. “Starbucks?”

 “Yeah,” Bucky says, pleased. “I’ve tried every single thing on their menu. I’m now waiting for the Christmas specials.”

 Steve orders his first Pumpkin Spice Latte. He wonders if maybe, by some chance, a few hours earlier, Bucky walked into the exact same Starbucks with the exact same order; the thought leaves him smiling.

~

 

  _October_

 Steve isn’t sure whether the Avengers were always so actively involved in everything, or if now that he’s here, they feel like they have to _do_ things. Either way, the Avengers don’t just come together to battle catastrophes anymore. They’ve come to form an actual team of skilled fighters, defenders and protectors. They work together, train together, hold meetings, make public appearances, until Steve comes to view it as a full-time job.

 The Avengers, too, attribute his clinginess to his phone to the existence of a girlfriend, or boyfriend, or either, depending who is asked.

 Steve thinks there isn’t even a prospect of having either (he _wants_ neither, unless the _either_ in question is a certain someone who’s somewhere in the world, in a perimeter-secure house, and is partial to weird food combinations, Starbucks, and late-night calls), until October 3 rd rolls in to rattle his belief.

 “Is it at least decaf?” Steve asks.

 “Steve, for shame,” Bucky admonishes, already on his third Starbucks coffee. “It’s never decaf. We die like men.”

 Steve snorts, his heart feeling light. It’s so easy these days, talking with Bucky. He calls to check in, check up on Steve, share new discoveries, prattle on about anything and everything. They’ve come a long way from the first couple months, when Bucky spoke in a quiet monotone and coped by hanging up. Steve wants to praise him for it – only, if he did, he’d start gushing and then Bucky _would_ hang up again.

 “So, YouTube,” Bucky says, and Steve mutters, “Uh huh.”

 “How amazing are otters?”

 Steve chokes on his pineapple juice. “Huh?”

 “They float,” Bucky says in a tone of voice that Steve can only call ‘dreamy’, “and they hold hands. And the babies sleep on the mothers. As they float.”

 “Buck, you doin’ okay?” Steve asks, just in case.

 Bucky lets out a small laugh. “I’ve been watching otter videos for hours. Eating, floating, playing.”

 “Jesus,” Steve mutters under his breath, hand already starting to sketch the outline of an otter.

 “They’re _adorable_ ,” Bucky insists. “Hey, Steve?”

 His voice has gotten huskier, and Steve raises an eyebrow.

 “Buck?”

 “It’s October 3rd today.”

 “And what day is that?” Steve asks; dates mean National Days. National Days mean experiments or discoveries for Bucky and, in extent, for Steve.

 Steve still remembers fondly the giant batch of pancakes he ordered on Pancake Day. He makes a mental note to order some for breakfast.

 “National Boyfriend Day,” Bucky says, voice low and sheepish.

 Steve lets the pencil slip from his fingers.

 “Remember when I called you ‘sweetheart’?”

 Steve does, with unnerving accuracy.

 The first time Bucky had called him ‘sweetheart,’ Steve had nearly frothed at the mouth, thinking that Bucky was making fun of him, calling him something so delicate. He had just lost a fist fight to boys who weren’t delicate themselves, and felt like the whole world was against him. But Bucky had been earnest, and had followed up with pressing his lips against Steve’s own – and the rest was history.

 It’d been a long time coming anyway.

 Once again, Steve wonders how much Bucky _does_ remember. More importantly, Steve wonders how much of what Bucky remembers comes with corresponding feelings, or if the memories are just stories that could just as easily belong to someone else.

 “I – I – I remember that, yeah,” Steve stammers clumsily, cheeks flushing red.

 Usually, he’d elaborate. Usually, Bucky would elaborate too, and they’d go back and forth recounting facts and mildly poking fun at each other. This time, they don’t.

 Steve thinks he needs to show how he _feels_ about it. “Vividly. It was nice. A nice time. Era.”

 Years. Months. Days. Hours. Hell, every minute counted when with Bucky.

 “D’you...” Bucky pauses, then goes on gently, “Would you mind if I used it again, some time?”

 Steve’s mind floods with thoughts and he forgets to actually reply. Either he is making things up and should be checked, or Bucky is asking him, one, if he’s seeing someone, and two, if there’s any possibility they can be together again, _some time_.

 “Steve?”

 “I – sorry, Buck, I was, I was – I’d –” _argh_ – “it’s – it’s absolutely fine. Perfectly. Fine.”

 A huff of laughter – “Okay.”

~

 “And holy hell, Steve, you can actually learn how to fight with nunchucks _online_. Unbelievable!”

 Steve registers the excitement and gingerly sets down his mug. He strictly stares straight ahead as if looking right at Bucky.

 “I liked it better when you watched otters floating.”

~

 Steve throws his head back, laughing in delight.

 “Oh no, Bucky, no!”

 “It didn’t go well,” Bucky admits reluctantly. “Not for me and not for the chopsticks. Frankly,” he adds, “not for the table either – it was such an itty bitty thing.”

 “Bucky, you don’t just go all-out on wasabi!”

 “I know that _now_ ,” Bucky grumbles.

 “Did you cry? I cried the first time,” Steve says.

  “There might have been some tears,” Bucky murmurs. “And snot, and sweating. And sounds I didn’t even know I could make.”

 Steve resumes his laughter.

 “It was all very indecent.” Bucky sighs remorsefully. “I compensated for the table. Even though it had it coming,” he adds grumpily.

 “Bucky. Wasabi?” Steve says, smiling his sympathy.

 “That’s what people do, they go out and eat things!” Bucky retorts. “In my case, in quiet, empty places, but that’s what they do! And shut up, you said you cried too,” he gripes.

~

 “I did a thing today.”

 Steve settles on the couch with a bowl of chips, folding one leg under the other. “A thing?”

 “I went to the mall.”

 That is, indeed, a thing. From what Steve has gathered, Bucky has been steadily trying to get out of his comfort zone – a zone which apparently includes his house, Starbucks, and the supermarket where he gets his food – and brave the world outside. So far, places as vast, confusing and possibly busy as a mall have been out of the question.

 Bucky never likes it when Steve gets all sappy and supportive – but the hell if Steve cares.

 “That’s awesome, Buck, way to go, that’s such a huge step forward –”

 “I’ll say it kindly, please shut up?”

 Steve suppresses a grin. It’s for no good reason, because Bucky isn’t actually there and won’t see him doing so, but Steve can’t seem to break the habit.

 “How did it go?”

 “I needed clothes,” Bucky says. “It’s getting cold. It’ll get colder. So I had to.”

 Steve nods – again, no point to that. He realizes and hums encouragingly.

 “I went when they’d just opened up, so it wasn’t busy,” Bucky says.

 “Good strategy,” Steve encourages. “Did you get what you need?”

 “Yeah.” Bucky clears his throat. “You know Thor, right?”

 He sounds so sheepish that Steve can actually picture him rubbing his neck as his ears go red. He blinks the image away.

 “Yeah, I know Thor,” he says cautiously.

 “This girl, at the mall,” Bucky elaborates. “She told me I have – I quote – pretty hair, asked me what conditioner brand I use.”

 Steve lets out a startled laugh.

 “Told me I should braid it,” Bucky continues warily, “like Thor does.”

 “That’s wonderful.” Steve basks at the girl’s pluck.

 “She was looking at me weird, like she’d jump me and braid it herself, so I fled,” Bucky says.

 Steve snorts a chuckle: former Sergeant Barnes, former Winter Soldier flees from a girl that wants to braid his hair. It’s sweet and somewhat sad at the same time.

 “And then I got myself some Starbucks, for reward,” Bucky finishes.

 “Buck, that’s not a reward, that’s your life.”

~

 “Guess the day,” Bucky prompts.

 “You either tell me or I’m Googling it,” Steve replies, phone propped between his elbow and ear.

 “October 31st,” Bucky recites ceremoniously, and Steve pictures him reading from the calendar. “National Frankenstein Friday. I went to a bookstore and got it.”

 “And Starbucks?” – Steve smirks.

 “Fuck off, and yes, I’m sipping on my fucking White Chocolate Mocha as we speak and it’s amazing.”

 Steve chuckles. “I’ve got it too, the book,” he says. “We used to hide under the covers and read it to each other, remember that?”

 “It was a real horror story back then,” Bucky remarks.

 “Well yeah, ‘cause we were little. I’d rather think we were little, and not wimps,” he adds as an afterthought.

 “I was never a wimp – and hey, Steve?”

 He sounds eager; Steve quirks an eyebrow.

 “Yeah?”

 “Let’s do it again. You have the book, let’s read to each other.”

 It’s so silly, ridiculous even, but Steve spends the night alternately reading and listening to _Frankenstein_. When he gets hoarse, Bucky takes over, and when Bucky’s voice gets rough, Steve does. They get tired, drowsy, silly, and start using ridiculous voices for the speakers and pompous tones for the narration.

 Steve hugs a pillow to his chest and breaks into lovesick giggles. He never did fall out of love, not really, but somehow, he finds himself falling head over heels all over again.

~

 

  _November_

 Steve takes up drawing Bucky in domestic moments of his life. He has sketches of Bucky going to the mall, fleeing from a pixie-haired girl in tights; Bucky dubiously scrunching his nose as he smells hair conditioners in a supermarket alley; Bucky making his first successful pancake, hair falling off a bun on top of his head and sweatpants messy with dough; Bucky looking out a window at a giant question mark (but that’s Steve projecting his own irritation at not knowing where Bucky is); and more sketches than he cares to count of Bucky holding Starbucks cups in various states of bliss.

 The sketches make Steve feel Bucky is somewhat closer than a whole phone line away.

 “The 80s had such high hopes for us,” Bucky observes.

 “ _Back to the Future 2_?” Steve asks, shading Bucky’s hair on his sketchbook.

 “ _Back to the Future 2_ ,” Bucky echoes with a sigh.

 “You watched the third one?” Steve asks idly.

 “Yeah.”

 “And?” Steve prompts.

 Bucky makes a prolonged non-committal sound. “Might’ve shed a manly tear or two at the end.”

 Steve smiles softly. “You should watch _Big Hero 6_. You’ll like it.”

 “Doesn’t that come out tomorrow?” Bucky asks.

 “Yep,” Steve says, smacking his lips in satisfaction. “Advanced screening. Stark’s friends have perks.”

 Bucky snorts wryly.

 “Show-off.”

~

 “What’s today’s day?” Steve asks, munching on cereal, halfway through his _Back to the Future_ trilogy rewatch marathon.

 “Stop that, you’re chewing in my damn ear.”

 Steve munches on, louder this time.

 There’s a resigned sigh from Bucky’s end.

 “November 10th,” Steve says obnoxiously, mouth full of cereal.

 “Funny you should ask,” Bucky says softly. “It’s Forget-me-not Day.”

~

 “Hey, Steve.”

 Bucky’s definitely smirking.

 Steve sits up straighter. “What did you do?”

 “I might’ve adopted a ferret.”

 Steve slowly sets the stack of folded clothes on his bed.

 “I’m sorry – what?”

 “A ferret,” Bucky repeats.

 “A – real one?” Steve asks awkwardly.

 “They’re pets now,” Bucky says. “He’s good company. Well, they –” he clears his throat – “They can bite, if not treated right.”

 Steve raises an eyebrow.

 “But who doesn’t?” Bucky asks in a small voice.

 “Are you telling me you bite people on the regular?” Steve jokes, setting clothes in the closet.

 “It was an analogy, Steve, don’t be a jerk.”

 Steve grins. “What’s his name?”

 “Einnie,” Bucky says sheepishly.

 Steve furrows his brow. “Isn’t that the dog’s name from _Back to the Future_?”

 “Yeah,” Bucky says lightly.  “’Cause see, I thought,” he explains slowly, “the dog transcends time, right? He goes from the present to the past to the future and so on, and so did I. In a way. We’re both time-travellers – in a way – it’s an analogy again, Steve, don’t mouth off to me.”

 Steve smirks.

 “The ferret isn’t,” Bucky continues, “but he lives with me now, so it rubs off on him. Get it?”

 “You think you’re so clever,” Steve says fondly.

 “But I am so clever,” Bucky informs; Steve can all but see the cheeky smile spreading on his face.

~

 “Today I found out that Dum Dum had a son named Steven James.”

 Steve stops washing mid-plate; he turns off the tap and hastily wipes his hands on his sweatpants.

 “You did?”

 “Steven James,” Bucky repeats.

 He sounds astonished and proud, but Steve feels itchy. He worries his lower lip. Bucky hasn’t discussed anything war-related since he fell off the face of the earth that night in August. Now here he is, mentioning Dum Dum Dugan, and Steve wonders if that means another ‘hard time’. If it does, Steve doesn’t think he can handle a separation that well, not _now_ that Bucky’s been calling at least three times a week, holding casual conversations, teasing, joking  –

 Steve has to sit down.

 “Well, he – loved you,” he manages.

 “Why d’you sound like that?” Bucky the ever-observant inquires.

 “Like what?” Steve tries to even out his voice, ignoring the quickening of his pulse.

 Bucky pauses, apparently deems he heard wrong – “I also found out about Dernier’s unfortunate demise.”

 “Yeah, he, uh,” Steve feels his knees go weak, and – _please don’t disappear again, please stick it out with me, please_ – “the fire was unfortunate, yeah, but he – he died a hero. That’s – that’s good. That’s what he would’ve wanted.”

 Bucky deliberates, as if reading the terrain.

 “Falsworth did a lot of charity work.”

 “Yeah, I’ve read,” Steve says, strained.

 “But died young,” Bucky says suspiciously. “Compared to the others.”

 “Yeah, but – but he did good things while he was alive,” Steve tries. “It’s not the time you have, it’s the things you do with it –”

 “Are you trying to _comfort_ me?” Bucky reproaches.

 Steve fumbles for words.

 “Steve.”

 “I just...” Steve trails off helplessly. “I just don’t want you to disappear again.”

 Bucky sounds bemused, “What’s that got to do with anything?”

 Steve positively flails and for once is actually happy that Bucky can’t see him.

 “I just – I don’t know if you’re being morbid, or sad or –”

 “I’m just _doing research_ , Rogers, Christ,” Bucky says irritably. “I’m not booking it.”

 “Okay,” Steve says quietly.

 “I’m not,” Bucky repeats.

 Steve nods. “Okay.”

 “Okay.” Bucky pauses, then goes on, “I also found out that I have nephews and nieces.”

 Steve smiles a small smile. “I know. D’you... want to see them?”

 “They won’t even know me,” Bucky says, voice tinged with amusement.

 “Buck, you’re a war hero,” Steve says earnestly.

 Bucky snorts softly. “I’m a ghost story,” he says in a low voice, as if sharing a secret.

 “You’re amazing is what you are,” Steve blurts.

 Bucky exhales, amused. “Okay.”

~

 

  _December_

 “Deck the halls with boughs of holly...”

 Steve quirks an eyebrow.

 “Fa la la la la, la la la la...” Bucky mumbles under his breath. “Tis the season to be jolly...”

 “Fa la la la la, la la la la...” Steve joins him with a reluctant mutter.

~

 “December 7th,” Bucky declares with the tell-tale ceremoniousness he reserves for National Days.

 “Mmhm,” Steve agrees, stirring sugar into his afternoon coffee.

 “National Cotton Candy Day.”

 Steve grins, startled. “No kidding.”

 “I’m venturing outside, smack in the middle of the day, to get some. I’m gonna brave the people, I’m gonna get a cotton candy. Commend me.”

 “I commend you” – Steve grins.

 “And then.”

 “Oh, I know,” Steve says dismissively. “Rewarding yourself with Starbucks.”

 “Steve, it’s the Christmas menu. I hope you’re taking advantage of it.”

 “Sure,” Steve says lightly, straightening up as a light bulb goes on; he holds the phone closer to his ear – “Hey. I know this place – Lemme get dressed and we can both go for cotton candy and we can share our experience. Our separate experience,” he adds hurriedly, lest Bucky thinks Steve is suggesting they meet.

  He’s stopped asking. He’s given himself until New Year’s – he figures then it will be okay to ever so gently prod Bucky again.

 Bucky doesn’t answer immediately; when he does, he sounds amused: “And then Starbucks?”

 Steve sighs. “Whatever.”

~

 “I don’t remember ever seeing such – such _extravagant_ Christmas decorations.”

 Steve grins. “Our Christmas was always so Dickensian.”

 Bucky snorts. “Remember, we used to decorate our –”

 There’s a clattering in the background, and Bucky groans.

 Steve raises an eyebrow.

 “Sorry. Tryin’ to make dinner. Our Christmas tree, we decorated with pine cones.”

 Steve smiles fondly. “Yeah. It was cheap. Well, it was _free_ ,” he amends. “But we always had a new star for the top.”

 “Yeah, I know,” Bucky says. “I got Einnie a tiny Santa hat.”

 “Jesus!” Steve laughs.

 “You decoratin’?”

 Steve shrugs, lower lip jutting out. “I’ll put up a small tree. Keeping the tradition.”

 “Good.”

~

 “Steve, you gotta try this.”

 Steve pauses mid-stroke amidst a sketch of a ferret with a Santa hat on its little head, because that is his life.

 “It’s –”

 “Starbucks?”

 “Don’t be a smartass, Rogers.”

 Steve smiles. “Buck?”

 “Mm?”

 “Are you partial to Starbucks ‘cause it’s part your name?”

 A beat and then: “Maybe.”

~

 Three weeks into December, Avengers publicity requires Steve to dress up as an elf and visit children in need, bearing presents. He makes the rounds with Clint. The children beam brightly, Steve and Clint beam back at them, and Bucky laughs and laughs at the mental picture of Steve in an elf-suit and elf-hat and elf-boots.

 Then actual pictures start surfacing, and Bucky’s week is made.

 “Can put one up on my wall?”

 “Shut up.”

 “It basically counts as Christmas decoration – you’re an elf, it’s Christmas!”

 “Buck? Shut it.”

~

 Steve spends Christmas Eve at Tony and Pepper’s Christmas Eve Party. It’s fun, but also exhausting. Most of the guests are strangers, people Steve doesn’t know but identifies as high society. By Steve’s count, three of them try to talk him into doing commercials for their brands and one presses him into modeling underwear. Steve politely declines Tony’s invitation to a follow-up party on Christmas.

 Tony nags, but Pepper understands. She packs him an inordinate amount of leftovers, which Steve wouldn’t normally accept, but what the hell, it’s Christmas. He might as well spice up his Christmas day with actual Christmas food.

 Pepper packs, and Steve waits. He watches the people at the party, mingling and drinking and laughing, all in their best suits, all with their happy faces on, and he suddenly feels a sharp pain in his heart and an intense need to _see_ Bucky. He forcefully shoves his hands in his pockets, bites down at his lip. It’s Christmas, it’s the season of love, people are supposed to be with their loved ones, Bucky sounds pretty okay these days, shouldn’t he – wouldn’t he –

 Steve shakes his head. That is not for him to tell. It is not for him to judge where Bucky’s at in his process of reclaiming his self, it’s not for him to hurry him up, it’s not for him to –

 Tony approaches on his side and clasps Steve’s shoulder.

 “So what’s Santa bringing you tomorrow, Cap?”

 Steve swallows down a cry.

~

 Steve dims the lights and makes himself comfortable on the couch. He flips through channels, settling on an old-time Christmas movie he can recall having watched before.

 The phone rings and Steve’s face instantly lights up.

 “Hey you,” he says, because – come on. The blocked number has always been Bucky.

 “Hey yourself,” Bucky says lightly. “Where’re you?”

 “At home.”

 “You havin’ a party?” Bucky asks.

 “No?” Steve says, confused.

 A pause.

 “Steve, it’s Christmas,” Bucky says pointedly.

 “So it is, Buck. Merry Christmas,” Steve says, cheerfully missing the point.

 “No, I mean –” Bucky sighs. “You alone? Aren’t you goin’ anywhere?”

 “I did go to Tony’s party last night,” Steve says, frowning. “Tonight I’m staying in.”

 Bucky sighs again.

 “Santa missed your house and you’re sulkin’?” he asks with a grunt; something rattles in the background.

 Steve laughs, light-hearted. “Yeah, see, I wasn’t naughty this year, I don’t think, and he completely skipped my chimney, the judgmental little bastard.”

 Something thuds – this time not in the background, not on Bucky’s end.  Steve jerks his head, decides the sound came from the bedroom. Which is not good.

 He stands up quietly, all senses on alert.

 “Buck, a sec,” he whispers, padding towards his shield, eyes fixed on the dark room.

 Out of the darkness steps Bucky. There’s a small, bashful smile playing on his lips, and Steve thinks this time he might’ve wished too hard. Maybe he wished too hard and the Christmas spirit made Bucky just – materialize there and –

 “You shouldn’t be alone on Christmas,” Bucky says gently.

 Steve just stands and gapes.

 Bucky turns his gaze to the phone, still in Steve’s hand, and raises his eyebrows.

 Steve does what is in retrospect the most undignified, badly thought-out thing he could’ve done at that point: he flips the phone behind him, unconcerned where it lands. The soft thud indicates the couch which – good. At least the phone gets to live another day. Steve might not, because he’s pretty sure he’s stopped breathing for some minutes now, and maybe he’ll stay frozen in shock forever; his house will be turned into a museum and people will pay to visit Captain America the Human Statue, but – yeah, the phone will get to see another day.

 He’s making Bucky nervous.

 “Steve?” he says hesitantly. “I –” he points towards the bedroom – “I wasn’t stalking you, I was just passing by and called to say hi and then you said you were alone and I...”

 He licks his lips uncertainly.

 “I can –” he gestures towards the bedroom again.

 He can _leave_ , that’s what he’s suggesting. This, at least, propels Steve into action. He shakes his head in panic, reaching Bucky in three quick strides.

 “No – please, don’t go. Stay?”

 He doesn’t like how pleading he sounds. He doesn’t want to overwhelm Bucky, but he can’t compose himself either. Not his fault; he was ambushed.

 “Your window is fine,” Bucky says nervously.

 Of course; there’s no backdoor in the bedroom – Bucky jumped in through the window.

 “It’s not exactly top security. It was easy. You should... probably check that, do something about...”

 He trails off, staring at Steve in confusion. Steve realizes why a second too late, when Bucky turns blurry and Steve feels tears trailing down his cheeks.

 So much for not being overwhelming.

 Steve’s nose starts running, too.

 Bucky steps forward, his eyes full of concern. He cups Steve’s face in his hands, one flesh and one gloved.

 “Hey. Hey” – he touches Steve’s cheek – “don’t cry, sweetheart, c’mon –”

 Steve lets out a wet sob.

 Bucky wipes the remaining tears on Steve’s cheekbones, leans closer and presses two soft kisses on Steve’s eyelids.

 “I’m sorry,” Steve says, because he’s still crying. “I’m sorry –” he grasps Bucky’s wrists as if they’re a lifeline – “Don’t leave, I’m sorry, I’ll stop, I swear –”

 Bucky’s lips soften into a smile. “I’m not leaving, Steve.”

 He tips his forehead against Steve’s, their noses lightly bumping. His eyes dart on Steve’s lips, linger on them, but he doesn’t move any further, and Steve needs permission before he attempts anything more.

 “Will you –” Steve breathes.

 “Can I?” Bucky asks fervently.

 Steve captures Bucky’s lips into a wet kiss; he feels Bucky smiling.

 “We’re gonna be okay” – Steve’s voice comes out trembling.

 “Yeah,” Bucky says tenderly. “Yeah, Steve, c’mon” – he rubs Steve’s neck – “we’re gonna be okay.”

 Steve crinkles his nose and refuses to let go of Bucky. He’s never letting him go; he’s never letting him out of sight, out of touch, out of reach –

 “Couldn’t you’ve said that earlier?” he asks, feeling childish.

 Bucky presses his lips in a remorseful smile. “I didn’t know it earlier.”

 Steve buries his head in Bucky’s shoulder and just breathes him in. Strands of hair that have escaped Bucky’s bun are tickling Steve’s forehead; Bucky is gently massaging Steve’s neck, his head, and Steve feels sure that this counts as a Christmas miracle. Maybe he’s been too eager to dismiss the Santa deal.

 “I’ve got food,” he mutters intelligibly into Bucky’s jacket.

 Bucky gently lifts Steve’s head off his shoulder. “What was that?”

 “Got Christmas food,” Steve says. “Wanna do Christmas?”

 Bucky’s smile is slow, affectionate. “Yeah.”

 Getting said food means letting go off Bucky and just – no. Steve grabs Bucky’s flesh hand, kisses it gently, and Bucky beams with fondness. In a bold move which at the time feels natural but in retrospect horrifies Steve with its intrusiveness, he takes hold of Bucky’s left hand, pulls off his glove and gently kisses the smooth silver knuckles. Bucky sucks in a breath, visibly astonished.

 “Buck,” Steve says eventually. He means _I love you_ ; he means _I missed you._

 “Steve,” Bucky echoes, and Steve thinks he might mean the same.

~

 

  _Epilogue_

 “Jesus, Steve, how much cinnamon are you going to put on that thing?”

 “It’s eggnog, it’s supposed to have cinnamon.”

 “Not _that_ much. And what’s with all the cheese?”

 Steve sighs. “It’s a Christmas thing.”

 Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Cheese is a Christmas thing?”

 “You should’ve seen the party buffet,” Steve says, blowing cinnamon off his sleeves. “One third of it was just cheese platters.”

 “I guess,” Bucky says, reaching for a piece, “if anyone should know what’s what, it’s Stark Industries.”

 He pops the cheese into his mouth. He nods, eyes going wide.

 “This is good,” he says through a mouthful. “Holy shit, this is good.”

 “Gourmet probably,” Steve says, taking a bite himself. “Best of the best and so on. They know the best places, Pep and Tony. There’s this small bistro thing, really quiet, serves the best Italian food I’ve ever tasted.”

 He turns the remaining piece of cheese in his fingers and hesitantly says through lowered eyelids, “Maybe we could go there for – for lunch or something. Tomorrow.”

 Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Or.”

 Steve clucks his tongue, exasperated. Here he is, uncertain, abashed, wary of Bucky’s reaction to planning for the future, and Bucky is just – _ugh_ –

 “Holy hell, Buck, we can do Starbucks after!”

 Bucky grins. “Listen, it’s special!”

 “Okay,” Steve says. “You want special, I’ll give you special too – maybe next week we can try some fusion cuisine.”

 Bucky’s lips slowly part into a cat-like grin. “You said _cuisine_. We _have_ come a long way.”

 Steve rolls his eyes. “Well, it’s special. It’s fusion.”

 Bucky nods, his face soft, his eyes bright.

 “I’d like that.”


End file.
